that's mrs. mediocrity to you

nineteen years later
that’s what we call it

not nine eleven oh one
not September 11, 2001
just
nine eleven

two words

three digits

two towers

four planes

thousands

of

mothers
fathers
daughters
sons
sisters
brothers
wives
husbands
aunts
uncles
girlfriends
boyfriends

not statistics

falling

from

the

sky

not dates
or where were you’s

just whole hearts
in odd numbers

each one

the only necessary

evidence

of love

::

.

.

I wrote this for the 10-year anniversary
of this tragic, horrid event.

I am re-posting it again today, in honor of all those hearts.

Never forget.

.

i refuse to say

hang in my heart

on bits

of knotted thread

and wrinkled ribbon

swaying

in a barely moving breeze

wrought

from distilled smile

and cornered

memory

i think about words and the way we use them
sometimes as weapons
sometimes as shields

sometimes to unite
sometimes to divide

i think about unjustness and all the times
i fought the status quo
all the times
people around me rolled their eyes
because i wouldn’t stop couldn’t stop didn’t stop
saying

this is wrong
this is wrong
this is wrong

and now i’m silent

perhaps i’m listening
or exhausted
or a little bit broken

or thinking about the times
when i said
nothing

i rage inside but the words hesitate
just
on the edge
of my crone woman
tongue
as if gathered in their own lone protest

we will not go into the world for you
no one’s listening
it will not make a difference
no one’s listening
all the words have been spoken
no one’s listening

and besides

you must act
you must act
you must act

perhaps this is why
i can’t sit still

or hear my own heart beating

marching alone
through miles of anger

getting nowhere

soaked through with
cold hard injustice
pounding down around me

stepping over puddles
filled with lies

the super sweet blueberries dropped into oatmeal

the smell of lilacs, just outside an open window

a new loaf of bread popped in the oven

a robin, a cardinal, a chickadee

a messy house, a messy garden, a messy life

in need of sorting, cleaning, scrubbing, tending

waiting to be torn from disarray

and pasted back in perfect place

as i sit here

contemplating nothing

sipping tea

and mostly,

smiling

.

.

.

there are leaves on the trees again
and the crabapple is blooming

the robin sings me awake
and then puts the sun to bed with

a story that has no words
and a song that carries sky

there’s a starling
trapped in the chimney
scratching code
in night-blind terror

and i cannot tell you
how much
i need

to listen

.

.

. . .

.

(p.s. i rescued the starling)

.

.

.

.

quickly now

tell me what you love
who you miss

how you
survive

if the rain makes you weep
if the stars make you shiver
if the ocean brings you to your knees

quickly now

show me the heart
that’s fallen from your sleeve

read me your mind
from the book of deep night

tell me the story that races
through the tunnels
of your soul

quickly now

.

. . . . .

.

here i am again, doing this again–30 days of poems, hoping the words will come.
hoping hope will come, as well.

.

the changeling

post-mortem
and i’m still standing

here

in front of
scarcity

just the way
i did

when you
were
more

.

. . . . .

.

here i am again, doing this again–30 days of poems, hoping the words will come.
hoping hope will come, as well.

.

ample

what is enough
when you have no pantry
no cupboard
no shelf?

what is too much
when you have
empty rooms?

.

. . . . .

.

here i am again, doing this again–30 days of poems, hoping the words will come.
hoping hope will come, as well.

.

if you need to bleed

let it go

if you need to weep
if you need a river
if you need to wail
if you need to shiver

let it go

if you need deep silence
the despair of solitude
if you need to repent
or the bliss of belief

let it go

if you need to laugh
if you need a mountain
if you need to howl
if you need a fountain

let it go

if you need to bleed

let it go

.

. . . . .

.

here i am again, doing this again–30 days of poems, hoping the words will come.
hoping hope will come, as well.

.

remnant

from the upstairs window
a glint of light in the back field

driftwood?
i thought

as I walked back
to discover
a large pair of wings

white
with some grey

but mostly:

empty

silent

pristine

.

. . . . .

.

here i am again, doing this again–30 days of poems, hoping the words will come.
hoping hope will come, as well.